


The Smallest Miracles

by satincolt



Series: An Album of Our Life [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is the best husband, Childbirth, Commissioned Work, Fluff, It's not horribly graphic don't worry, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Pregnancy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satincolt/pseuds/satincolt
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley welcome their youngest daughters Eve and Lilith into the world.





	The Smallest Miracles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GaleneZenith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GaleneZenith/gifts).

> Hi and welcome to the first fic in the series after [the Complete Picture](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879417/chapters/47082670)! If you haven't read that yet, this won't really make too much sense, so I recommend popping over to that fic, which establishes this AU! This work was commissioned by loyal TCP reader GaleneZenith, and I had such a ball writing this! It is not graphic in a voyeuristic way as it's more about the emotions and the love between Crowley and Aziraphale, but it is childbirth from the birthing parent's perspective (birthing parent in this case is Crowley, who is nonbinary and transmasculine), so if that isn't your cup of tea I recommend turning back now.

“Today’s the day, love.”

Crowley opens his eyes slowly, still tired and disoriented. He blinks at the alarm clock on his nightstand. _Five a.m. What is going on?_ Sleepily slapping at Aziraphale, Crowley attempts to scoot away from his husband and nestle back under the covers, but Aziraphale very determinedly strips the covers back, then leans down and wraps Crowley in a warm and inescapable hug.

“Come on, my dear, we get to meet our daughters today,” he says gently into Crowley’s ear, leaning back upright and pulling Crowley up with him. Something small clicks into place in Crowley’s sleep-muzzed brain and he takes one small step closer to true wakefulness.

“Delivery day?” he mumbles, tucking his face into Aziraphale’s neck. His husband rubs small circles into his upper back.

“Right you are. I’ve already packed everything to let you sleep a little longer, but we’ve got to get going to the hospital soon.”

“Toast and jam?” Crowley asks hopefully. Aziraphale hums an affirmative. “Tea?”

“Only if it’s green,” he reminds him. “I’ll get that ready for you if you promise not to fall asleep on me.”

“I can’t make any promises, angel,” Crowley yawns.

“Well, then I suppose I’ll just have to—_carry you—” _Aziraphale says with a grunt, sliding an arm under Crowley’s legs and lifting him clear out of bed in one motion. Crowley makes a high-pitched noise of protest that doesn’t quite make it all the way to words, but wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck anyways.

“Lucy?” he asks when Aziraphale sets him down at the kitchen table.

“Mum’s on her way,” Aziraphale pants, taking a moment to catch his breath after descending the stairs carrying his massively pregnant husband. “Should be here before we leave.”

Crowley folds his arms on the table in front of him, pushing his chair back enough to rest his head on his forearms. It’s quite a feat considering the size of his belly. “Toast?” he asks imploringly in such a small voice that reminds Aziraphale quite forcibly of Lucy. He certainly knows where she gets it from.

“Yes, of course,” he says, and sets about making several slices of toast for his husband. “Are you going to change out of your nightgown?” he asks. Crowley grunts.

“Why bother? I ended up naked the last time I did this, and none of my other clothes fit.” It’s a fair point. Aziraphale finishes with the toast and Crowley tears into it with gusto. Then he retrieves Crowley’s sunglasses from upstairs. Crowley folds them and tucks one arm into the neck of his nightgown. By five thirty, Aziraphale’s mum is knocking at the front door.

Outside, it’s dark and balmy, the air filled with the high-pitched shimmering drone of night insects. It’s a wonderfully calm pre-dawn morning, and Aziraphale’s mum standing on the front step in the porch light is a beatific sight. “Mummy,” Aziraphale greets his mother, holding the door open for her. A small, grey-haired woman with a deceptive amount of energy for both her age and size, Aziraphale’s mother is one of Lucy’s favorite people and lives only a half-hour away.

“Good to see you, Azi,” she says, giving her son a hug. “Lucy still sleeping, I gather?”

“Quite. Anthony and I were just about to depart, so we were going to wake her to say bye-bye,” Aziraphale explains.

“How about I go fetch her?” Mum suggests.

“Good idea.” Aziraphale gathers the various supplies he and Crowley and their doula Madame Tracy had determined Crowley would need while giving birth, arranging it by the front door. Crowley waddles into the front entrance of his own volition, still looking half-asleep as he leans against the front door. Mum leads an equally-sleepy Lucy down the stairs, holding the little girl’s hand.

“Go give your daddy a big hug,” she’s saying. “When he and your papa get back, you’re going to have two new baby sisters.”

Lucy stumbles blearily over to Crowley and walks face-first into his left thigh, pressing her face into the nightgown. Her arms come up belatedly to hug his knee. Crowley chuckles, reaching down to ruffle her shock of messy red curls. “You be good for Grammy, my little hellion,” he murmurs. Lucy mumbles something into his leg, slowly detaching at Mum’s prompting to give Aziraphale a hug, too. Then, at five forty-five on the dot, Aziraphale and Crowley depart for the hospital with Mum and a barely-awake Lucy waving goodbye to them on the front step under the inky blue predawn sky.

* * *

There’s any number of more local hospitals Crowley could’ve chosen to give birth, but there’s only one hospital with Dr. Anathema Device, and that hospital is nearly an hour away. Crowley wakes up slowly on the drive there, his gaze fixed on the empty roads ahead of them.

“Nervous, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, glancing over at Crowley.

Crowley frowns, sets his jaw, shakes his head. “Nah, not even remotely. Old hat and all,” he says. He takes his sunglasses off his collar and sets them on his face. It’s a comfort thing, both for the growing light and for a sense of personal armor. They both know he’s lying, but Aziraphale doesn’t mention it. If putting on a brave face will help his husband, then who is Aziraphale to deny him that? Birth is, after all, one of the most harrowing ordeals anyone goes through on a regular basis. If Aziraphale was sitting in the passenger seat, round as a Macy’s Day parade balloon, he’d be a nervous wreck on the inside as well as the outside. At least Crowley is strong enough to keep the nervous-wreck-ish-ness fairly neatly contained.

Aziraphale lets Crowley out at the main entrance to the hospital, pleased when a paramedic standing about hurries over with a wheelchair. He catches up with Crowley shortly after parking the car. Crowley has, in their usual Crowleyish fashion, refused any sort of help and determined they’re going to wheel themself into the hospital unassisted. Aziraphale normally knows better than to offer help when they’re in such a mood, but he won’t take no for an answer right now and he takes hold of the handles of the wheelchair despite Crowley’s whining.

“Hallo, Anthony Crowley checking in for the maternity ward,” Aziraphale says cheerfully to the nurse at the front desk. “We have an appointment with Dr. Device for 8 a.m.”

“I’ll let her know you’re here,” the nurse says politely. “Follow me, we’ll get you set up in a room.”

Crowley situates themself on the bed, looking distinctly anxious and uncomfortable while Aziraphale bustles around him getting everything situated. A knock on the door alerts them to Dr. Anathema before she enters the room, looking put-together despite the early hour.

“Good morning, Anthony, Aziraphale,” she greets them warmly. “Are you ready?”

Crowley looks vaguely like they’re going to be sick, but they nod stiffly and say, “ready to get this over with.”

“It’ll be over before you know it,” Dr. Anathema says reassuringly, patting Crowley’s hand. “I’ll have Newt come in in a moment and give you the IV to get started on the Pitocin and the prostaglandins, and that should get the ball rolling. Once the contractions are about four minutes apart, call for me, okay?” Crowley nods again. “You’re going to do great, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says and Dr. Anathema steps out of the room. He perches on the bed next to Crowley, gently petting his spouse’s hair and pressing a feather-light kiss to the shell of Crowley’s ear. “It’s going to be alright. I put the sign up on the door already and Tracy’s going to be here within the hour.”

Crowley turns their face into Aziraphale’s shoulder and mumbles something under their breath.

“Sorry, dear, I didn’t catch that,” he says, dropping a kiss to Crowley’s brow.

“Dunno if I can do this,” Crowley whispers, loud enough for Aziraphale to hear this time.

“Of course you can,” Aziraphale says in the most comforting tone he can muster. “You’re fantastically strong. You brought Lucy into this world. I’m going to be right here the whole time.”

“Whole time?” Crowley murmurs, their voice unusually high pitched and small.

“Whole time,” Aziraphale confirms. “Wouldn’t think about leaving you, my love.”

“Whole pregnancy’s been so much worse,” Crowley says softly. “’m just so tired.”

“I know, darling, I know, and it’s almost over. You’re in such good hands now. We’ve got you.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley tenderly on the mouth, caressing his thumbs along his spouse’s cheekbones. “I love you,” he murmurs against Crowley’s lips.

“Love you too, ‘Ziraphale,” Crowley whispers back.

There’s another knock on the door and the nurse, Newt, steps into the room. Crowley draws himself up and seems to settle a bit, putting his brave face back on. Newt makes pleasant, if slightly nervous, small talk as he expertly threads the IV into the back of Crowley’s left hand and hooks it up to a bag of fluids.

“These are the drugs that’ll induce labor,” he says, emptying one syringe after the other into the line attached to Crowley’s hand.

“Pray they work quickly,” Crowley mutters.

“They should!” Newt says brightly. “You’ll feel them once they do. If you need to get up… walk around or anything, just remember to take your IV with you. Oh, and call Dr. Anathema when the contractions are—”

“Four minutes apart, yes,” Crowley interrupts. “Got it. Thank you.” Newt sees himself out; Crowley gives a sigh of relief when the door closes behind him.

“Would you like a book, dear?” Aziraphale asks, already digging out one of his own. Crowley shakes his head.

“Don’t think I could concentrate.” He draws his legs up as best he can, finds himself too encumbered by his belly, and settles for sitting cross-legged. “Read to me, angel?”

Aziraphale is more than happy to oblige, going so far as to start the book over for Crowley’s benefit. It’s _The Hobbit, _which Aziraphale knows Crowley doesn’t know the first thing about, and he also knows that Crowley has no qualms about interrupting the reading to pepper him with questions. They make it about halfway into chapter three before Crowley quietly interrupts with, “oh.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks up from the book. Crowley is stretched out on his side facing Aziraphale, and has a look of concentration on his face, eyes unfocused in the middle distance. His hands press firmly to his stomach.

“First contraction,” he hisses. Aziraphale fumbles for his phone to start the timer. It’s at that moment that Madame Tracy, the Doula of Serendipitous Timing, enters the room.

“Hello dears,” she smiles at them, setting her beaded purse on the chair in the corner. “How’re we getting along?”

“Just had the first contraction,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley doesn’t seem like he wants to say much of anything right now, still concentrating fiercely on whatever sensation he’s experiencing.

“Remember to breathe, dear,” Madame Tracy says lightly and Crowley releases a breath on cue. He does have a terrible habit of forgetting to breathe. After another moment, the tense lines of Crowley’s body relax and he takes a deep breath.

“One down, untold thousands to go,” he says dryly, then shuffles himself around into a sitting position with his legs hung over the edge of the bed. Wordlessly, using her flawless instincts, Madame Tracy sits on the bed behind Crowley and begins rubbing his lower back. Aziraphale resumes reading, and Madame Tracy proves an excellent audience member.

Crowley, meanwhile, is descending into his own personal hell. He’d conveniently forgotten the physical agonies that come along with bearing a child the last time he’d done it, and had foolishly been excited to do it again. Madame Tracy’s insistent hands on his lower back and his husband’s mellow voice are certainly helping, but the contractions are ramping up far faster than they had with Lucy, giving him very little time to get used to the waves of pain and pressure gripping his body. Time is very relative in between reminders to breathe and occasional “are you alright, dear?”s, to which Crowley nods and gets on with enduring it.

He hopes Aziraphale is timing these contractions because it’s all he can do to hold himself together when the vise grip of his internal muscles clenches down and his jaw clenches the same. Aziraphale asks him if he still wants his shades on. He nods, pushes them up the bridge of his nose. The fluorescent lights in the room are wickedly bright and already beginning to give him a light-induced headache. Shame he can’t persuade Dr. Anathema to deliver the babies in the dark. At some point, Dr. Anathema reappears.

“You really decided to move along, didn’t you?” she asks him. Crowley nods breathlessly, fighting the urge to curl into a ball as another contraction hits him. They’re definitely coming faster now, such that his perception of time is mostly pain with occasional blips of relief. “Lie back for me, bend your knees.”

Crowley does as he’s told. Aziraphale materializes at his side, holding his hand, smoothing his hair back from his face. He feels Dr. Anathema prod at him in the academic sense that he’s aware of the sensation, but every nerve south of his shoulders is screaming from the pain of the contractions, so he barely actually feels her.

“Alright,” she announces, patting Crowley’s knee to let him know he can relax. “We’re getting to the good part! Anthony, you’re doing amazing, almost five centimeters dilated. I’m going to get a fetal heart monitor in here so we can keep an eye on the babies. This’ll be your last chance for an epidural before it’s too late.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t do too well with anesthesia, redheaded,” he mumbles. Dr. Anathema nods.

“Getting up and walking around can help with the pain,” she suggests, then disappears from Crowley’s narrow awareness. Aziraphale and Madame Tracy encourage him up off the bed. He finds his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, head resting on his shoulder, his husband’s arms around his waist. Madame Tracy holds him from behind, her hands resting on top of his belly. The three rock gently from side to side, slowly waltzing around the delivery room.

“When was the last time we danced like this?” Aziraphale asks with the hint of a smile.

“Hastur’s wedding?” Crowley guesses, caught between giving in to the pain of this contraction and fighting it. The contraction crests over him like a breaking wave, catching him completely off guard as it ratchets up to a heretofore untold level of pain. He bites down on a thin whine, his knees going weak. Aziraphale and Madame Tracy take his weight, supporting him between them.

“Did you know it’s only been two hours?” Aziraphale says then. Crowley grunts in response, waiting for this contraction to let him go. In the faint blip of near-orgasmic-lack-of-pain, Crowley sighs,

“Feels like two days,” and then the next contraction grabs him in its jaws.

“You’re doing beautifully, my dear. You are _amazing,”_ Aziraphale murmurs with such reverence that if Crowley weren’t out of his mind with pain, he would’ve found himself misty-eyed.

Dr. Anathema reappears and fits a couple of dark bands around Crowley’s belly. Then he finds himself back on the bed with the doctor between his legs, talking to Madame Tracy.

“Has his water broken yet?” she asks. The doula shakes her head. “We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?” Whatever is going on down there, Crowley is merely a passenger on this infernal ride which just got much, much wetter. “Ten centimeters dilated!” Dr. Anathema announces.

The room fills with a dizzying blur of faces; Crowley is blind to all of them but Aziraphale’s. His husband stays right by his side, the whole time, just as he promised. The pain changes from the dull tear of a wolf at his innards to the hellfire burning of skin stretched nearly to breaking between his legs. The only thing that keeps Crowley breathing is Aziraphale’s constant reminders to do so, “in, two, three… out, two, three…” like a metronome.

“Okay, Anthony, it’s time to start pushing!” Dr. Anathema instructs from somewhere south of Crowley’s border of awareness. He does what he’s told, each effort in time with the burning contractions pulling a haggard groan out of his throat. Aziraphale whispers platitudes in his ear. The sense of pressure is absolutely overwhelming; Crowley can almost feel the bones of his pelvis creaking as it feels like a hydraulic press comes down on them.

“Stop pushing a moment, dear,” Madame Tracy says from somewhere unseen. Crowley stops pushing.

“Baby one is crowning!” Dr. Anathema calls. All of a sudden, relief floods Crowley and they give a weak sob at the feeling.

“Perfect, my love, perfect,” Aziraphale says a touch weepily, pressing kiss after kiss to Crowley’s cheek and forehead.

“Push!”

The untold number of people in the delivery room give a sudden cheer and Madame Tracy places a wrinkled, bloodied baby on Crowley’s chest.

“Lilith,” they gasp, reaching up to touch their newborn daughter with shaking hands.

“Lilith,” Aziraphale says in response, kissing Crowley’s ear and leaving a wet dab of tears on their cheek. Lilith stirs, then begins to wail shrilly. Crowley strokes two fingers along her cheeks, down her tiny back, along her arms and legs, her impossibly small fingers and toes.

“My dear, we’ve got to clean her up. You’re not quite done yet, but you’re so close,” Madame Tracy says, her hands descending and very carefully lifting Lilith away.

“Okay, okay,” Crowley whispers, tears blurring their vision as their newborn goes. Exhaustion begins to lap at Crowley insistently, like waves on the pebbled shore of a lake.

“I know you’re tired, Anthony,” Dr. Anathema comes again, “but we’ve got one more baby to get out of you. I want you to push on the next contraction and we’ll deliver Eve, okay?”

Crowley makes a tired noise of some sort that could be taken to mean assent. After all, what choice do they have? The contractions bite down on Crowley once more, ripping through them with such force that they wring cries out of their exhausted body.

“Almost over, almost over,” Aziraphale murmurs. “So strong, so wonderful.”

Here comes the pressure again, so enormously heavy and acute that Crowley swears their pelvis must be splintering. They sob through it, “I can’t do it, I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can, my love, you can do it. Eve is almost here,” Aziraphale says.

Helpless to the pain and all the instructions being fed to them, Crowley weakly pushes when they’re told and stops when they’re told and cries feebly. When the pain stops short, Crowley nearly collapses into unconsciousness with the shock of relief.

“Here’s Eve,” Aziraphale says so softly, putting another wrinkled and bloody baby on Crowley’s chest. 

“Eve, my baby,” they cry. The baby is so small she fits into both of Crowley’s cupped hands. She’s so quiet, but her tiny mouth opens and she begins to cry just like her daddy, flailing her oh-so-small fists. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Crowley whispers over and over.

All too soon, Eve is taken away from them and a dozen different hands touch Crowley all over, pressing down on their deflated stomach and between their legs and over their sweat-dampened hair. Then two clean, dry baby girls are placed on their clean, dry chest, and Crowley starts crying all over again, exhausted beyond the point of reason and overflowing with too many ineffable emotions. Aziraphale is on the bed beside them, pressed up against their side, kissing their cheek and ear and temple, he’s crying too, they’re both hugging their brand new little miracles.

“I love you so much,” Aziraphale whispers. Crowley is too choked up to respond, his words dying in his throat as he looks down at the two tiny lives he’s just borne into this world, pink and soft and quiet, their little faces still crunched up and pressed against the skin of his chest.

“Now is an excellent time to feed them,” Madame Tracy chimes in gently. “Do you remember from Lucy?”

“’Course,” Crowley murmurs, scooting higher up in bed and carefully juggling the fragile babies. He pulls down the hospital gown so it pools around his waist and positions Eve first with her little green cap; she latches on right away on his left side, suckling away happily. Lilith takes more convincing, but soon after several attempts she too is nursing easily in her little purple cap. “It’s surreal,” he whispers.

“Like a dream,” Aziraphale agrees.

“I’d always wanted babies, even as a little girl,” Crowley says, his voice warbling with the onset of a new round of tears. “And…well, after a certain point, you know, I never thought I could have that. But…”

Aziraphale swoops in and dries Crowley’s eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan before the tears can fall on the newborns. Then, as they look down at their babies, the babies open their eyes.

“Hullo,” Aziraphale says in wonder. There’s nothing to match the pure, pristine blue of a newborn’s eyes. “I’m your papa Zira.”

“I’m your daddy Anthony,” Crowley whispers. “Welcome to the world, little ones.”


End file.
